softened after an exchange of compliments and mutual admiration of each other’s swords, for his sword rivalled my Exalter as a graceful example of craftsmanship. The Celts, I knew, had made their weaponry some of the best in the world.
Stelamann was a vassal king of the Romans, but seemed open to other suggestions, and after I had described our destruction of Maximian’s shipyard, was eager to see a demonstration of Byzantine Fire. Although we had abandoned the stirrup pumps, we had some of the mix with us, and demonstrated it by hurling a pot full from the battlements, which excited the king considerably. He made me promise to give him the formula, and his queen Martha, a literate Morini from the region around my lost stronghold of Bononia, was able to write down what parts of the mix I could recall.
It interested me to see that for all the finely-made swords of his nobles, the ordinary soldiers were armed only with a spear and dagger, and had very little in the way of armour, although they did have shields for defensive purposes. King Stelamann shrugged away my questions about armour. His smiths, he said, had developed good chain mail, but his warriors preferred to fight “like men,” which appeared to be bare-chested or even naked, covered in blue woad and screaming intimidating war cries.
I deduced that they relied for success on their ferocity and some excellent light cavalry, and when I questioned the king about catapults, siege engines or siege towers, he shrugged again. His warriors disdained sieges and would storm anything head-on, he boasted.
Cautiously, I approached the idea of action against the Romans. I told him how I had defeated the Roman fleet, and twice now had burned Maximian’s invasion barges. I recounted the epic battle on the shingle of Dungeness, and his eyes sparkled at the description of our use of war chariots, for they were a famous Celtic battle weapon in ages past.
Those chariots in our blood-soaked clash on the Cantian shingle drove the enemy away for several years, and I had executed the Caesar who led the legions, I told the king, but Maximian had invaded again. Although we destroyed two of their fleets, some legions got ashore, and the Romans had driven us back to Londinium and destroyed my capital. The king nodded. He knew the power of the legions. He also appreciated how lucky I had been to escape them alive, as they had been recalled from the siege in which I had been trapped.
Sometimes, I said wryly, it is better to be lucky than good. Again the king nodded. The old pagan had not kept his throne without luck, and he appreciated that the gods favoured some people more than others. So, when I broached the subject of allying my forces with his and those of other Belgic or Gallic rulers, he did not flinch. He wanted to know specifics of numbers, weapons, gold, timings. I told him frankly that my own forces at present would not be enough, but I was planning to raise a second, Christian army to swell our ranks.
“We have the weapons and an elite corps of trained men. We need more numbers, and the Christians can give us those. They have already had some training, but elected not to fight when they found we were not battling the Romans who threatened their religion,” I explained. “Now, I believe we can rally them in enough numbers to come here and help you throw off the Romans, especially as they are so busily engaged with the Alemanni and others across the Rhine.”
King Stelamann nodded. “You would profit from our shed blood,” he said. “If together we defeated the emperor Maximian, you could then retreat to your island and let us face him alone when he has recovered.”
“This I would not do,” I said, and I used the icon I knew would convince him. I took from the leather pouch where I kept it the great silver and amber brooch of a British jarl. “This you will know is my kingly crown,” I told him. “I am a lord of the British in my own right as well as an emperor
Stelamann was a vassal king of the Romans, but seemed open to other suggestions, and after I had described our destruction of Maximian’s shipyard, was eager to see a demonstration of Byzantine Fire. Although we had abandoned the stirrup pumps, we had some of the mix with us, and demonstrated it by hurling a pot full from the battlements, which excited the king considerably. He made me promise to give him the formula, and his queen Martha, a literate Morini from the region around my lost stronghold of Bononia, was able to write down what parts of the mix I could recall.
It interested me to see that for all the finely-made swords of his nobles, the ordinary soldiers were armed only with a spear and dagger, and had very little in the way of armour, although they did have shields for defensive purposes. King Stelamann shrugged away my questions about armour. His smiths, he said, had developed good chain mail, but his warriors preferred to fight “like men,” which appeared to be bare-chested or even naked, covered in blue woad and screaming intimidating war cries.
I deduced that they relied for success on their ferocity and some excellent light cavalry, and when I questioned the king about catapults, siege engines or siege towers, he shrugged again. His warriors disdained sieges and would storm anything head-on, he boasted.
Cautiously, I approached the idea of action against the Romans. I told him how I had defeated the Roman fleet, and twice now had burned Maximian’s invasion barges. I recounted the epic battle on the shingle of Dungeness, and his eyes sparkled at the description of our use of war chariots, for they were a famous Celtic battle weapon in ages past.
Those chariots in our blood-soaked clash on the Cantian shingle drove the enemy away for several years, and I had executed the Caesar who led the legions, I told the king, but Maximian had invaded again. Although we destroyed two of their fleets, some legions got ashore, and the Romans had driven us back to Londinium and destroyed my capital. The king nodded. He knew the power of the legions. He also appreciated how lucky I had been to escape them alive, as they had been recalled from the siege in which I had been trapped.
Sometimes, I said wryly, it is better to be lucky than good. Again the king nodded. The old pagan had not kept his throne without luck, and he appreciated that the gods favoured some people more than others. So, when I broached the subject of allying my forces with his and those of other Belgic or Gallic rulers, he did not flinch. He wanted to know specifics of numbers, weapons, gold, timings. I told him frankly that my own forces at present would not be enough, but I was planning to raise a second, Christian army to swell our ranks.
“We have the weapons and an elite corps of trained men. We need more numbers, and the Christians can give us those. They have already had some training, but elected not to fight when they found we were not battling the Romans who threatened their religion,” I explained. “Now, I believe we can rally them in enough numbers to come here and help you throw off the Romans, especially as they are so busily engaged with the Alemanni and others across the Rhine.”
King Stelamann nodded. “You would profit from our shed blood,” he said. “If together we defeated the emperor Maximian, you could then retreat to your island and let us face him alone when he has recovered.”
“This I would not do,” I said, and I used the icon I knew would convince him. I took from the leather pouch where I kept it the great silver and amber brooch of a British jarl. “This you will know is my kingly crown,” I told him. “I am a lord of the British in my own right as well as an emperor
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